Fantasy Nations RP

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At other campfires, as is common when the prospect of battle occupies the minds of even a small group of individuals, the men had turned to drinking as soon as the first opportunity to break open a cask. These men, their fears driven to bay by their familiar friend of intoxication, and other men whose minds were instead settled by the traditional legionnaire's rituals of gambling, boxing, and whoring, began to grumble about their leader's cowardice. This was no way to fight orcs, went the general consensus. Soon after, when one man said this too loudly, there were some conversations in the command tent. It is common that a craven will treat a defenseless target with all the viciousness he otherwise withholds the dangerous ones, and this fellow shortly found himself receiving five lashes for his drunkenness, plus another ten for insolence. When the screaming had ended, and the victim's bloodied frame tossed rudely at a medic to see that he was fit for battle, albeit shirtless, on the morrow, it was announced that any further festivities were forbidden. The campground slept then, reluctantly, and only after considerable grumbling. Morale was poor but, the Count argued, at least they wouldn't be hungover in the morning. The generous deployment of sentries, out in the dark of the wood, pondered alternately whether or not to be grateful for the silence.
 
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Chlegyr

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The guard seemed unconvinced by the words, but didn't have any real reason to suppose that the man was wrong. "Never even seen an Orc myself. Can't rightly say what they can and can't do." Looking up he too caught a stray drop of rain to the forehead, and the medics around the fire all moaned and grumbled as it meant another cold, wet night on the march. All muttering their own similar versions of the farewell provided by Seryth, and perhaps secretly grateful that they'd have a reason not to watch the treeline, they trudged back to their tents and settled into the gloomy interiors. Rain now picking up in enthusiasm, Seryth fell asleep to the sound of rain pattering against the not quite waterproof roof.

Thrum

Some time later, it would seem, Seryth was awoken. The rain was continuing, but another sound had overruled the soft patter. A sound more felt than heard. It seemed soft, percussive, almost like a second heartbeat. The beat shook the large drops of water pooling at the top of the tent onto Seryth's face, so that he was even more awake for the next blast.

Thrum

The sound was now akin to a drumbeat, but so much larger and deeper that it was akin to comparing a dandelion to a full grown oak. The wall of sound pushed through the tent and rattled the posts, making itself felt deep in Seryth's chest. By now there was shouting throughout the camp, and the guards seemed to peer frantically into the thickets to find whatever was about to make it's attack. Seryth however felt a twinge of something distinctly... magical, although not quite what he knew; Something... powerful and ancient, though how he knew this he could not say.

THRUM


This last blast was almost deafening, and threatened to floor Seryth if he wasn't already lying in the scattered remains of his tent. Books and other miscellanea of his craft were sent all about the tent, and beyond could be heard the shouts and panicked orders delivered to an army that had just about fallen asleep. Despite this, no sounds of combat could be reported, though the crack of far off thunder signaled a turn for the worse in terms of weather.
 

Tirin

God-Emperor of Tealkind
Moderator
When Seryth first awoke, it was rather dimly; it took him a moment to pick the strange sound out from the rain, though he was thrown into wakefulness by the sudden splash of water (though, by his approximation, it was nearer to ice) on his face. He quickly covered his face to prevent any further water from falling onto him, and make the heroic decision of trying to get back to sleep - until the sound blared for a second time, and much louder. He went stiff when he came to the realization that its source was powerful, ancient, and undoubtedly magical, and with good reason: in his time in Luscia, Seryth's only experience with such beings had been the rare meetings with Vrykals, and the last months before he had left, when Yochanan had been released. Such things didn't bode well for the expedition, and it was when the mage decided to pull himself out of bed and respectfully inform the Count that he was punching far above his weight that the third explosive note hit, scattering various notes and tools as it did.

That prompted two thoughts from Seryth, in quick succession. The first was to wait a bit longer, perhaps a minute or two, to see if another blast would come - if it did, he didn't want to be blown away with the rest of the camp when it sounded. The second was to, once that short interval of time had passed, stand and hurry out of his tent, searching for wounded soldiers to assist. While he hadn't been standing, some of the guards doubtless had been, and were likely injured - and more importantly, he had the distinct feeling that his magic, skill, and experience with such forces of nature would be of great help in keeping the army from utterly disintegrating throughout the night, as long as whatever it was didn't attack directly. If that came to pass, he realized, the only option for any of them would to flee into the night and hope that it was occupied with killing those courageous or stupid enough to stay.
 

Chlegyr

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The camp had been scattered into disarray, as might have been expected. Shouts and commands echoed throughout the forested valley as officers attempted to rally the troops and prevent a rout. A few tents had collapsed, trapping and panicking their startled occupants, who were now either hacking their way out or were being helped by nearby soldiers. A few guards had fallen over awkwardly and sprained wrists or ankles in the fall, but everyone was otherwise uninjured, if somewhat rattled. The frigid rain continued to pelt down, slicking the mud and running in sheets on the cobbled road. Soldiers stood near terrified, in the rain, weapons pointed towards the outskirts of the camps.

Soon however, it became apparent that no attack would be forthcoming, but that did little to put Seryth's mind at ease. The strange, ancient aura only seemed to be increasing in strength, and if he concentrated enough he could swear he almost heard... whispering. Nothing that could have been transliterated to any human tongue; it's syllables and vowels indistinguishable as the alien sound pressed against his mind. The rain thinned momentarily, enough that Seryth could hear another sound slowly creeping inwards towards the camp. The faint rustle of leaves and a low, lupine growl.
 

Tirin

God-Emperor of Tealkind
Moderator
Following his rush to see to the (thankfully rather minor and infrequent) injuries of the guardsmen, and hardly seeing it as his duty (nor in his own best interests, or that of the camp at large) to help others out of their fallen tents, Seryth drew his coat tight about himself and headed toward the ornate tent that belonged to the Count, situated near the center of the encampment. He brushed past soldiers with little more than a brief, "Excuse me," moving faster as his paranoia steadily built alongside whatever spirit it was that now troubled them. Whatever it was was merely eerie for the moment, but then, so were the abominations he had already mentally compared its presence to, and they were more than capable of butchering the entire army and-

He came to a halt perhaps halfway to his destination in the hopes of gathering his thoughts, taking a few deep breaths to calm himself. It was then that he heard the unearthly speech - and, shortly thereafter, was badly startled by the growl. Could the presence be there for him? No. Of course not. Nobody knows that you're here, he told himself, and if they did, they wouldn't recognize you anyways. Nothing to worry about. Summoning his courage, the youth walked toward the edge of the road, not far from where the growl had originated, and set his hand on his sword, closely observing the shadows that lurked just beyond the edge of the campsite. Perhaps his display of nerve would ease the soldiers some, and if not, he suspected he was far better-suited to facing this mysterous enemy than they.
 

Easy

Right Honorable Justice
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It took the Count shockingly little time to have his most elite retinue about him, all mounted and all ready to abandon the campsite at the very moment he gave such an order, which goes to show what a man can accomplish if he’s spent enough time and energy on preparing for it. Nevertheless they did not leave, but rather loitered about between the center and the far rear of the campsite, for a couple of reasons of the Count’s own. One, the immediate consideration, was that there could be danger waiting on the dark and empty road back to his stronghold - the sort of danger he’d rather have an army around him before facing. The other, of course, was his lack of any actual choice in the matter. If his forces were routed while he fled to the safety of his home, he’d be the laughingstock of all of Jechya- if not all of Eximia itself- in a heartbeat. The Grand Duke Vysnovet could tolerate a man of caution, certainly – so long as the path of caution ultimately ended in victory. There wasn’t a nobleman in all of Jechya who would wager a single golden ducat for Sighorn’s life if that man discovered that he’d lost a battle out of cowardice. If anything, they would be placing bets on the exact length and intensity of his execution. Sighorn himself felt that boiling oil was most probable, and the thought of it preyed on his mind as he calmed the nervous horse he was seated on. (Or, just as likely, took comfort from it himself, like a child with his toys.)

It was General Leto, in the meantime, who had command of the troops. As might be expected, Leto was a learned commander and an expert practitioner of the so-called ‘tried and true’ theory of command. He had the troops formed up in regiments in mere minutes, armed and ready, albeit clothed mostly in their nightgowns or lack of thereof.

As all this was happening, the Court Enchanter was preparing his own first tangible contribution to the campaign. A product of the same principle that the Count did not wager on the unconventional, Dymund was exactly what an outsider would generally expect: An old and stooped man in faded robes, wearing a faded but pointy hat, great white beard flowing down to his chest and skinny arms waving incantations. Even these days, one might note, most mages had abandoned his more ritual-focused school of study for the more modern practice of “fundamental transference,” with Miranda Zasolez of the Vasa Ascendancy being the most vocal, famous (and, frequently, controversial) proponent. Admittedly, this was a practice more suited to naturally-talented individuals who could project certain types of magic, to great effect, at whim. Others, like Dymund, relied on decades of study in established routine.

Though endowed with the knowledge and learning to eventually apply a wide variety of spells to useful effect, such as Dymund did not possess the natural ability to discern and identify such magical auras as now emanated from the forest beyond. Nonetheless, they were not without use. As the ranks fell into place, then quieted down, all standing resolutely against the tree line with a grim determination that seemed to compare poorly with the many bare, exposed asses and pot-bellies that riddled the lines, Dymund concluded the incantation he’d been muttering and cast his arms to the sky with a final shout of “dat ars lumens!” There was a sound, best described as “a missed beat,” while every campfire in the site suddenly grew dim and went to smoldering. Then suddenly, a heartbeat later, a blaze of light as strong as the setting sun blazed from the wizard’s hands, past the backs of the troops and into the tree line beyond, and held.
 
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Chlegyr

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The near blinding light pierced even the thickest veils of modesty, brightly illuminating amongst other things the pale buttocks and pallid skin of the gathered men as the excitement began to fade at the same rate that their flesh turned purple in the biting cold. The light reflected brilliantly from the rain slick surfaces, as every cobble and leaf shone with a magnificence these sad northern specimens were unlikely to ever experience again for the remainder of their existences. Truly it was a masterful display of old fashioned spell casting the mages in the Eximian colleges would have been proud to witness.

It was just unfortunate then that the spell revealed naught but wind blasted tree trunks and some extremely started roosting birds, which had somehow gone through the preceding blasts and growls without being disturbed. The odd angle of the light seemed to amplify the shadows of the trees, appearing like thin fingers raking at the not quite verdant greenery and undergrowth. As the light was cast, the growling ceased, and there was a noticeable pause before anything at all seemed to happen. Then came a soft rumble, and a thick, almost smoke like fog seemed to roll from the hillside itself, as if in reaction to the piercing light exposing the treeline. The light itself remained visible, although muted, and the outlines of several impossible silhouettes describing shapes almost approximate to man but too... elongated and feral began to scurry at a frightening pace within the fog.

To Seryth, the aura had become so strong as to almost be choking, but the whisperings definitely seemed to become more frantic. It was as if whatever was making the voice was taken slightly by surprise at the response from the men, but remained for now at least to be in control of the situation. As Seryth become more used to the sounds, it seemed as if several different tones and pitches could be made out, like voices talking to each other. Around the same time, the scarred healer began to notice the aura felt stronger in different places around the camp, concentrated in pockets seemingly at random. To the North, looking at just the right time, he caught something resembling a very tall man with an equally large staff ducking in between two pockets of roiling fog. The man seemed to stare straight at Seryth, although how he knew how the figure was doing this, he did not know. A voice rose above the others, seemingly hushing the others back down to a dulled whisper. Another lick of fog rolled in front of the figure and he disappeared back into the night.
 

Easy

Right Honorable Justice
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Fruitlessly, Enchanter Dymund did his best to focus on illuminating the strange silhouettes in the distance, managing only to obscure the view even more as the bright light reflected back off of the fog outshone the view of the beyond. This came to an abrupt end after General Leto shouted to him: "You! Witch! Enough with the damn lights!" As the spell cut off just as suddenly as it had first appeared, the campfires swiftly rekindled their (relatively) dim glow, their own energy returned to them.

Unsure how else to contribute aid in this situation without interfering with the General's efforts, he set to weaving some sticks and threads around an egg, (tools of the trade). An academic would recognize this performance as the start of the classical Eximian method for experimental divination of forces, where the end goal was to observe what effect the ambient magical aura would have on the specially designed apparatus which, broadly speaking, featured the sticks tied together with a complex threaded pattern in a roughly square-pyramidal arrangement, finished by precariously balancing an egg (always a fresh egg) upon the summit. Interestingly, this is one of very few types of spells that every school of magic- from Draconic to Elven to even the largely-forgotten Old Tribal Orcish- has developed independently. Though the types of devices are different in each case, from bone casts to colored wooden spheres, among others, the basic principle was always a test of small influences on one or more biomatter objects by a magical field. By the Eximian method, a sufficiently learned observer could often learn a great deal about the various forces at the testing site based on the behavior of the device on completion, often even beyond what the most gifted magi can observe by intuition. (Does the egg fall? Rapidly? What exact direction? Did it spin? Is there vibration in the threads? Is there resonance? What sort? Does the structure expand or collapse? And so on.)

Without the benefit of Seryth's arcane intuition, in the meantime, General Leto did not spare the wizard or his intentions a second thought. His experience, thorough in the area of traditional warfare yet lacking with regard to arcane matters, told him that all this looked like nothing more than the savage orcs' attempt to sabotage his army's rest and morale, albeit with some heretofore harmless magical mumbo-jumbo mixed in. Briskly, he ordered the ranks to "fall out, dress for battle, and reform," sending a solid one in every three of them scurrying to their tents and leaving the other two feeling all the more nervous and alone in their formations. Having received no reports as of yet from the sentries outside camp, and impatient unwilling to wait any longer for one to arrive, he dispatched a rider (eventually, under threat of painful, immediate, and above all certain death) out into the fog to find one. Certainly he wasn't the sort of general to command a man to ride directly into enemy lines alone, on principle, but fog and shadow puppets were another issue entirely. The sentry patrols were many and spread far, and assigned in pairs. If there were any sort of sizeable force approaching, at least one of them surely would have raised the alarm by now.
 

Tirin

God-Emperor of Tealkind
Moderator
Seryth began to relax as the men began to form up under General Leto, his breathing gradually slowing as the suspense seemed, to him, to become mostly-silent boredom. He cursed loudly upon hearing Dymund call out his spell, and immediately covered his eyes with his sleeve, hoping that whatever was out there wouldn't be able to see the light reflecting from his clothing through the overpowering illumination of the spell. As it dimmed, he lowered his arm in time to see mist descend from the hills, followed quickly by the scrabbling, spindly figured. Again, he set his hand on his blade, prepared to feed the orcs - at least, he hoped they were orcs - a length of steel if need be, and took two quick, cautious steps back in towards the camp.

It was then that he noticed the abrupt increase in the aura's intensity, and its concentration into small clusters as well. That detail, while insignificant (indeed, imperceptible) to most assembled, thrust the young man from unease into quivering and poorly-concealed dread. The whispering had been bad enough, but the fear that the enchanter had agitated the source of the voices was beginning to get the better of him, particularly when they quieted shortly after he felt the eyes of the towering man upon him - almost certainly at his command, or some other that they were all subordinate to. He spoke, then, in the hopes that whatever the pockets of energy were, they would understand him, in tone and intent if not his language; despite his unsteadiness, his voice remained firm, clear, and unyielding, with a hint of respect. "I ask you to leave us be. We do not mean you any harm, and are sorry for the intrusion; we will be heading further along in the morning, and hopefully will not trouble you further."
 

Chlegyr

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The egg basket enchantment, a favorite of the Eximian school of enchanting, proved to Dymund the Enchanter one thing in particular. The Egg was indeed capable of floating roughly half an inch above the pyramidal structure, turning lazily in the air as if slowly spun in a pool of water. Fortunately, this was certainly a response from the device that ruled out any of the more insidious druidic cult practices or some kind of battle spell. Unfortunately however, it meant Dymund had very little idea of what anything shown related to any kind of magic he'd been trained to identify. The egg itself seemed to be speeding up, ever so slowly, but remained resolutely floating above the pyramid. Beyond, the soldiers shuffled nervously out into the smoke, attempting desperately to find something to report and so be eligible to return without being summarily executed, but finding seemingly nothing in the twisting fog. The guards originally sent to patrol the edges of the camp would soon find these men pointing weapons at every nearby half shadow, now together thoroughly lost within the maze of fog and trunk that had replaced the forest surrounding the camp.

Seryth could no more make sense of the voices before he attempted to communicate with them than before. Their swirling, flowing speech grew faster, fast to the point that it seemed to resemble more a gust of wind than any speech. His request seemed to be like a scrap of parchment tossed into a tempest, his initially respectful tone stripped of its original meaning. Clearly tone and pitch did not transfer well into this new medium. A clearer tone sought to be made clear amongst the tempest. This one seemed to breach the language barrier so to speak, and the indignation and anger was clear. Seryth felt a tugging sensation as the feeling spread through his body, and he looked up to a spot opposite where the light had been cast, on the other side of the road. He saw the same looming figure from earlier, or at least he presumed so. The man was closer, enough so to see what appeared to be a wolf pelt with attached skull used as a headdress, with a strange motley of bone weaved between hide and rags. In his hands was a staff, although the way the being held it looked closer to a stave. His stare caught Seryth's, the intensity somewhat unsettling. Instead of disappearing into a bank of fog, he settled for simply walking back into the forest, making no attempt to cover his tracks.
 

Tirin

God-Emperor of Tealkind
Moderator
Realizing that his words had had no effect save for, it seemed, exciting the source of most of the voices (and angering what he presumed - and hoped - was the large man), Seryth braced himself to make another bold move. Though he had, perhaps, misread the gesture, the fact that the figure in the distance had simply walked away without hiding himself within the fog led the young healer to believe that following along might be a good idea, particularly since he had felt his gaze pulled in that direction by... something. Throwing his better judgment to the wind, though not his caution, Seryth walked into the darkness that surrounded the campsite and towards where he had last sighted the silhouette of the man, pausing only as long as was necessary for his eyes to adjust to the shadows. With his ears out, eyes peeled, and a hand - as before - firmly around the hilt of his sword, the heir presumptive was prepared to strike down any who would try to harm him, and went seeking both the source of and reason for the assault.
 

Chlegyr

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The voices seemed to grow more distant, but not fading entirely, the moment Seryth began to pace slowly into the treeline. Other soldiers watched him go with a sense of foreboding dread, but none felt the need to physically stop him. The distant calls of the men for Seryth to return dimmed to almost nothing as he passed the veil of mist itself. The air felt cold and wet, almost pressing into him as he advanced past twisted trees whose branches lay beyond his vision. The soft crunching of autumn leaves beneath his feet and the squelch of mud being the only noises he could hear beyond his own breath. The mist directly in front of him seemed to be less formed than the wall of fog to either side, and he could clearly see the half formed footprints he assumed belonged to the giant he saw staring at him. As if guided, the feeling of being tugged helped Seryth maneuver the otherwise impossibly cluttered forest undergrowth in the dark, easily stepping over near invisible tree roots and negotiating brambles and thorns with ease. Quickly, he found himself in a clearing.

Moonlight shone strong through a gap in the clouds, creating an eerily serene scene in the otherwise dead forest. Almost relaxing his grip on his sword, it was then Seryth saw the giant up close. He'd nearly mistaken him for a tree by how still the figure was standing, his stance guarded, the base of the staff resting against his right foot in some strange style Seryth had never seen previously. Without moving, there was no way to determine whether this was an offensive or defensive posture. The bones and the teeth of the wolf did not shine in the moonlight, as his back faced towards it. Instead the long shadow he cast seemed to twitch in the center of the clearing, as if barely restrained by the static nature of its owner. Covered in rags and hide as he was, it was impossible to see his face, but he seemed himself to be scraping seven feet tall. His breath fogged, billowing from the front of the maw of the wolf skull, but the man made no other movement.
 

Easy

Right Honorable Justice
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About three weeks ago, in the capital of the Kingdom of God...

It was an hour past dawn and Father Zejianus, acolyte to the Lord Bishop, was slightly concerned. Having ascended the enormous spiral staircase that graced the walls of the Spire, he had stopped before the double doors of the chapel at the top, as per his custom, to await the moment when the Lord Bishop finished singing the morning's devotions. But today, standing there with his master's bread, fish, and ale on a platter in hand, he heard no singing beyond the doors. He hesitated before knocking. He wasn't late - that was a certainty. Zejianus prided himself on his exact punctuality. Had the Lord Bishop finished early? Surely not. His Excellency's practice, like his tone, was honed to perfection. His hour of song was, famously, timed to the second. His rhythm was impeccable. That only left... no, it couldn't be. Anxiety gripped him. If the Lord Bishop was dead, and he was the acolyte to find the body, his career in the Church- he stopped himself there, and made a note to confess and atone for harboring such thoughts later. With a shaking hand, he knocked.

"Enter." As invitations went, it was hard for one to be worded in a more foreboding way; nonetheless, the young priest was relieved. Turning the ornate brightsteel knob on one of the doors, he pushed it inwards, and took in the sight of the chapel as he did every morning. The joy of it never faded in his mind, no matter how many days of this went by. The chapel was truly among the most beautiful sights in the world; a wondrous feat of modern engineering, let alone that of the ancient times in which it originated. A mosaic of stained glass covered the entire dome - floor to ceiling - in a work of art so brilliant, so elaborate, that it could only have been inspired by the divine. Every major scene of their founding Father's ascension is displayed at once: Here, where the sunrise meets the horizon, the colored pieces clearly arrange to show the Nameless Man praying in the morning. There - not far off, a white dove takes an arrow meant for the Voice of God in Kebeth. And in between these two scenes, and any other such proximal, pieces of each overlap to form another, in this case the meeting between the Voice of God and the Magister, Akkhalus. At midday, when the local clergy take their mass here, the chapel is lit from all sides at once, and any part of the full history of their Church to the point of its founding can be viewed with equal clarity. At the bottom of the mural, which weathers sun and storm alike with equal stability, the panels of glass come to rest on floors of smooth, solid stone.

The secret to supporting the chapel's polished-granite floor, suspended so near the top of one of the tallest towers in existence, lay in the brightsteel beams that criss-crossed within it, though one wouldn't know this by looking at the stone blocks from above or below. Nor would they know, in that event, how such long rods of solid metal were crafted, as their length far exceeded that of even the largest professional forge. They would, of course, quite correctly guess that such construction represented an enormous investment of manpower and resources where traditional hardwood flooring might have been used instead, and the reason why this wasn't so became clear very quickly: in the center of the chapel there always burned a ring of flame, about the breadth of a man's head around, the fiery crown of their founder. At least... there usually did. Today, the man formerly known as Lord Bishop Gregorius sat calmly in its place, the crown of fire upon his head. His breakfast platter dropped from his acolyte's hands to the floor.

"You must keep a cooler head, Brother Zejianus," said the Voice of God. "There is much to be done."
 

Tirin

God-Emperor of Tealkind
Moderator
As the distance between him and the camp increased, Seryth found himself growing more and more relaxed, despite the nature of the situation he was walking into. Here, away from the light and the soldiers, he was not merely a young (though skillful) drifter of a medic, but his Serene Highness Sailence Vasa, and gained the confidence one would naturally find in not having to hide their identity. The prince revealed himself to the doubtless-waiting figure by taking a few cautious steps into the clearing, both his snow-white clothing and silvery blade catching the moonlight. He brought the point of the latter low to indicate that he had no hostile intent, but kept his wits about him all the same; this man, whoever he may be, was dangerous, and ought to be treated as such. After a moment's more of sweeping the clearing's border for signs of movement, Sailence spoke.

"You heard me earlier, I'm sure, or heard it repeated. I meant that. We only need to pass along this road to reach our destination, and will be happy to take another route on our return. If that is unacceptable, I would ask you to explain, and we could reach another solution; it would be best that we don't have to resort to violence." He said, his tone far bolder than it had been in addressing the spirits before. In the eyes of the shaman, it seemed, this was an entirely different man save for his appearance; he stood both straighter and taller, and his voice and eyes carried immense resolve within them. Most notable, perhaps, was the distinct lack of fear, as despite the dire circumstances the young man found himself in, he was ready to fight if it proved inevitable.
 

Chlegyr

Active Member
Member
The misted breath of the Orc did not dissipate into the night as Seryth would have expected, but seemed to trail backwards behind the Orc and into the fog behind the clearing. As Seryth drew his sword and stood at his full height, the Shaman visibly shifted, although barely. Much greater in movement was his shadow, whose edges appeared as porous which seemed somehow to lurch and bleed sideways about a foot, disturbing the leaf cover and the grass as it passed. The lupine stranger stood silently as Sailence spoke his words, but if he could understand them he made no notion to signal so.

Suddenly, with a slow motion of his gargantuan hand, he removed a small set of what appeared to be avian bones fastened into a chime from around his neck, tied by a delicate string around a sinuous neck. Gently he held the chimes out in front of him, the clattering of ribs and heavy breathing being the only thing audible. With a word in a deep, booming voice that Seryth identified as non Eximian but could otherwise not decipher, small holes in the chime began to catch air and produce a shrill shriek reminiscent of an eagle's cry. The shadow of the man almost shrank from the chime, and Seryth felt a chill travel up his spine.

"You-lie."

Whispered the man softly, in a strange and labored accent after a short period of quiet. He moved forwards, shadow swaying side to side as he removed the wolf cowl to reveal the features Seryth had only previously seen in old tomes. An Orc, unmistakably so. His blueish knuckles began to whiten as it gripped his staff in what could only presumably be anger.

"Hu-man lie!" He bellowed, anger clear in a voice that shook the blades of grass under his feet. He took a step forward that made his shadow press down upon the area under it, causing mud to churn and swallow the fallen leaves.

"Hurt until only hu-man! Then hurt and lie other hu-man! Say not fight but come with big shadow, to hide spirit from other hu-man. Bring many metal men with shadow-in-heart, make ground hurt, eat all tree-child! Spirits not-like hu-man come-kill tribe to last child and calf, say-"protecting". We... remember hu-man, we not-like hu-man. Want no-fight, big-spirit cry... when hurt, but we not-choose."

He rambled, with odd pauses and emphasis on syllables, clearly unfamiliar with the Eximian tongue. Perhaps Orcish physiology was not well suited to forming the tongues of men.

The magical aura of the Orc, although strange and foreign, was undoubtedly growing in power. The chimes seeming to glow a faint light blue as the breeze grew into a definite wind but still the fog remained stationary. Still making no move to attack, the Shaman looked to stare Seryth directly in the eyes. Seryth could make out the seething righteous anger which coursed through the piercing green eyes of the Shaman, clearly visible despite the darkness.

"Say no-fight. Show."
 
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Tirin

God-Emperor of Tealkind
Moderator
Sailence took careful note of the movement of the orc's shadow and in particular the effect that it had had on the grass. If he were to become aggressive, that would be something to avoid; there was no telling what kind of strange magic the shaman had access to, and underestimating him due to his race would be foolish. The prince stood motionless even as the orc bellowed and took a step forward, though remained on his guard as the shaman articulated more and more anger towards him - or, rather, towards the human tendency to fight and kill other races (and one another). During the shouting, he realized that it would be beneficial to simplify his speech a little bit, and he responded in a much simpler and calmer fashion. Throughout, he kept his gaze levelled at the shaman, though his eyes held much less fury and a great deal more curiosity, coupled with compassion.

"I am sorry for the things that other humans have done to your people, but in this case the soldiers come to hurt you because you took their village, and they want it back. If you do not leave the village, they will hurt you. I would be happy to speak with them for you, but they may not listen to me. If you do not leave or try to talk, your people will die," he said, sheathing his sword, "and these men may try to kill your people whether you talk or not. They all obey one leader, and their leader is a coward." He then held up his hands, to show to the shaman that they were empty, and he was not trying to trick him by feigning defenselessness (aside, of course, from the sword at his belt). Of course, the orc had no way to know that Sailence could fight quite well unarmed, but that was neither here nor there. "As I said, I do not want to fight, but I will if I must. I want to help."
 

Easy

Right Honorable Justice
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"Witch!" The general was a patient man by nature, but that didn't mean he was especially tolerant of wasted time. "What's going on here?"

The enchanter hesitated, the general glared, and then Dymund spoke. "I- I don't know," he volunteered. "This is something I haven't seen before. Never seen anything like it, even, not in all my years of schooling; and I've seen just about everything there is. It's almost like it... isn't even... magic. Or not an arcane practice, anyway. It's-"

"Enough!" Said Leto. "Is it dangerous?"

"I don't think so" said Dymund, weakly, but with a little more confidence. "At least not directly. If it were a death spell, I'd know. Or a force spell, or classic elemental. There might be some dimensional character, maybe, but the only one who could apply it on that kind of scale would be-" "BATTALION!" There were many that said powerful lungs were as important in a general as a sharp mind, and Leto was not lacking in the former. "CAPTAINS! ASSEMBLE!"

Within the space of a minute minute, ten slightly out-of-breath men in uniform had appeared before them, skidded to a halt, and saluted. When the last of them had arrived, he returned the salute to all of them, and moved on speaking briskly: "Three ranks thick. First rank, swords, shields. Second rank, spears. Third rank, pikes. Every third man in the last rank, torch and javelin. In event of retreat, fallback point is the hill to the southeast, about a mile back." Eight of them saluted, turned, and ran to make it so. "Sir!" The older of the two remaining, who wore spurs on his boots, saluted. "Cavalry?"

"Not to ride," came the response. "Stand by, keep control the horses." The officer looked offended by this, but turned sharply to do so just the same. The last remaining captain wore a longbow and a quiver full of arrows, and addressed Leto as well: "Recommend fire arrows for the archers, sir." "Negative," came the answer. "Woods are too wet to burn, and lighting them will only blind you."

"More light for the troops, sir." The man was persistent. As he made a mental note to have him demoted, Leto replied with a firmer tone: "We have campfires in the clearing, and I'm not marching into those woods. Even if the footmen can hold formation in there, the cavalry can't maneuver in there with the mud and the archers would be firing blind. Stand half your men fifty paces back from the infantry, send the other half to secure the fallback point. Now."

As the man departed, he turned to Dymund. "You any use on a battlefield?" In answer, the wizard conjured up a ball of roaring flames and threw it at the muddy ground, where it disappeared in an explosion of smoke and steam. "I'll take that as a no," said the general. "Go protect his Lordship, then. Relay the situation, and have him take his guard and leave for the fallback point. Inform him that the archers will be going as well," he added, knowing well the sort of man he served.
 
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Chlegyr

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The Orc seemed to be mollified by the words, if by the intent if not the wording. His fist opened up, revealing a huge and callused palm and knuckles indicative of a man who fought for a living. He scoffed slightly as Seryth finished his sentences, his expression of fury replaced by something resembling... weariness? The wind died, and the rustling of leaves faded with it. His gaze now fixed the human, and he stood up to his full height. Now towering over the Prince, the Shaman moved into what could only be described as a combat stance.

His face grew solemn.

"I listen. I not-believe... Hope could believe. Must see other way."

With that, a staff raised well above his head, the Shaman charged at the Prince, striding silently across the disturbed ground before attempting to bring the end of it down upon his head. He swung the blow cautiously, as if attempting to gauge the reflexes of his opponent, neither his stance nor his face indicating an attempt to truly finish off the Prince.
 

Tirin

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Sailence's hopeful smile quickly contorted into a disappointed frown as the shaman voiced his disbelief and started toward him, and the young man made the perhaps overly cautious choice to continue avoiding the man's shadow as much as was possible. Before the orc had taken two steps, the prince had darted forwards and to the left, so the moonlight would not cast the shadow onto him so easily. He looked up to the attacking giant with more than a hint of defiance, and with speed and agility better befitting a seasoned warrior than the untrained youth he at first appeared to be weaved underneath the staff and to the left, in the process landing a solid blow to the orc's stomach with his right hand before wheeling behind his opponent and taking another sharp pair of steps backward.

With his back to the moon, Sailence sighed, his breath issuing from him as a quickly-dissipating cloud. "I'm not going to hurt you if you go on - not much more than that, anyways, and I'm certainly not going to let you hurt me. There is no reason for us to fight; I will leave if you demand it, but I would prefer to learn more and help with talking to the other humans." He implored, trying in vain to keep the edge off of his voice as his patience began to dwindle. He could kill the orc with ease, he suspected, but it wouldn't prove anything he gave a damn about - and would, in fact, validate the shaman's point of view. He had one other method to convince the orc that his intentions were benign, but was reluctant to use it, and so again waited for a reply, though with his hand at his sword.
 

Chlegyr

Active Member
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The Shaman staggered backwards from the blow, but took no more than three steps to do so, seemingly finding his footing amongst the mud and grass of the clearing. His demeanor seemed slightly deflated, or perhaps more defensive, as he placed a foot away from the man but refused to put down the staff. The chimes around his neck, previously glowing now flashed a vibrant sky blue before emitting another avian screech. Sailence barely had the time to realize the Orc wasn't leaving footprints in the soft mud, before the Giant launched an attack almost too fast to comprehend, seemingly soaring through the air in an impossible arc accompanied by a gust of wind, before thrusting the end of the staff like a spear towards the chest of the young warrior, well out of range of rebuttal and springing back in the same breath with improbable grace into his half of the glade. The wind rustled the leaves, almost in an excited manner, breathing life into the previously still air.

The rough, gnarled texture of the wood was criss crossed with symbols and carvings, flashing before the eyes of Sailence as it thudded more or less harmlessly against his torso, stinging ever so slightly but seemingly doing nothing but muddying the cloth of his otherwise brilliant white garment. The Shaman, now easily fifteen (human) feet away from Sailence, seemed to lose some of the grave anger of his demeanor, replaced with a small glint of mirth. He chuckled in a bizarrely deep tone that ironically did little to set Seryth at ease. At least he could tell the others he'd heard an orc laugh, partially.
 
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